The Inside Of My Skin
by Luriko-Ysabeth
Summary: A short look into the head of my favorite character.


The Inside of My Skin  
  
I remember -- or believe myself to do so -- a conversation between my   
parents, my uncle, and I when I was young.  
  
Teru-chan, one of our neighbors, had just indulged herself in a public   
tantrum.  
  
"What remarkable behavior," my father said mildly.  
  
"Quite unacceptable," my uncle agreed, looking at me. "I trust you never   
behave so rudely."  
  
My mother sighed, a little sadly. "Teru-chan lives almost completely on   
the outside of her skin. Nothing to protect others from her -- and   
nothing to protect her from others."  
  
"Wouldn't you need to be strong to do that?" I asked.  
  
"Oh, yes," my mother agreed quietly. "Almost as strong as one must be to   
follow kanjou-kunrin, as we do."  
  
"Her behavior was completely impolite," my uncle contradicted, voice   
even. "It's just Not Done."  
  
"But one must needs be strong to swim against the current," my father   
laughed.  
  
"That's different."  
  
My mother smiled slightly, as if to say "They *will* disagree, won't   
they?"  
  
But perhaps it never happened and is only a thing crafted by my mind,   
familiar with my uncle and parents' teachings and ways of behaving, in   
order to explain certain things about the way that I am.  
  
I only know that my mother was better at smiling than I am.  
  
  
I tried to help explain kanjou-kunrin to Enishi, when he had trouble   
with the concept. I could not quite see *why* he had trouble   
understanding a thing that was so simple to me, but I understand it is   
often thus: one person will comprehend in a moment a thing that many have   
tried and tried only to define the shape of, or it will be the other way   
around.  
  
"Neechan, I *understand*. I suppress my feelings when I'm doing   
something important so they don't get in the way. I can do that. That is,   
I can if I practice."  
  
Oh, Enishi.  
  
"Kanjou-kunrin is not suppressing feelings," I explained patiently. "To   
suppress feelings would be to deny their existence, and that would be   
foolish -- as foolish as if, having sliced one's hand open, one were to   
deny that it was bleeding freely.  
  
"Rather, it is the difference between screaming wildly about one's   
sliced-open hand at a volume where the entire village can hear one, until   
someone comes to see; or, having sliced one' s hand open, quietly and   
firmly bandaging it without disturbing others or needing to wait for   
assistance. We are samurai, of the blood of samurai, born to the contest.   
Screaming like a dying pig does not befit us; indeed, in battle or   
scouting it might well prove most dangerous."  
  
"Feelings aren't wounds," Enishi told me stubbornly. "And you're a GIRL.   
A normal girl, not a warmaid; you won't ever be scouting or in battle."  
  
Oh, my foolish Enishi. Truly so much younger than I am, and not in years   
alone.  
  
It is true that if I were blessed with luck, the favor of the gods and   
buddhas, and the strong right arm of first my uncle (it should have been   
my father, but I know too well the strength of my father's right arm) and   
then my husband, the shadow of death by violence should never touch me.  
  
But I am trained to the tantou and the naginata, as befits the daughter   
of samurai. And I know as much of the secrets of poison as any woman who   
would cook and tend the hurts and illnesses of those at her hearth must   
in order to keep from deadly mistakes -- not that I can conceive of a   
situation in which I would ever use that dread knowledge; poison is a   
coward's weapon.  
  
Yet if I were to allow my feelings to rule me, it might well be that I   
should unthinking strike a person, whether friend or enemy, and possibly   
kill them; either one could very easily have dire consequences, not only   
for myself, but for anything that I believe in or support.  
  
And not all contests are of arms, not all fights are one with blade and   
arrow; it has been true throughout time that many of the most desperate   
struggles have nothing to do with armies and war.  
  
Nor is it a thing only of use when things are "important"; it is a way   
of life, of being strong when the only thing to depend on is one's self.  
  
I therefore seek kanjou-kunrin, as my mother and my uncle did before   
me, as my father still does -- in his own way, mastering his feelings and   
covering them with a layer of jollity and happiness, giving the   
impression of a man who is always merry, the eternal optimist.  
  
Even before my mother died, that always seemed vaguely dishonest to me.  
  
When I feel things, I will not make noises or displays to let everyone   
know how I feel; what I feel is my own business. But I will feel it, and   
I will not pretend that I feel something else, or that I feel only a part   
of what I truly feel. I am... as I am. If I were to pretend otherwise, in   
order to cause people to like the person I pretended to be, it would be a   
betrayal of everything that I am or can be.  
  
  
It was when my mother died that I first needed kanjou-kunrin, as opposed   
to it being a mere game I was playing or a trick I was learning. As the   
lady of the house, I welcomed mourners to the memorial service, accepted   
their gifts politely, offered them refreshments, and listened to the   
repeated, well-worn condolences with no more loss of face than if we had   
been discussing the weather.  
  
And afterwards -- I was still very young, then. After the guests had all   
gone, I shut myself in my room and screamed and kicked and cried myself   
to sleep.  
  
That was the last time I lapsed from kanjou-kunrin thus. If it were to   
happen today, I would not lose mastery in such a way, not even in   
private. I would grieve, but even the most terrible pangs of sorrow, rage   
against fate, regret, and love would be mastered, tamed to my use,   
waiting and ready to serve my needs, not me to serve theirs.  
  
And yet even a kanjou-kunrinsha can err due to feelings. Mastered or no,   
we can be deceived by what we feel. Once such an error is discovered,   
though, there is no sense in regret; only in correcting the error, which   
always will have risen out of the strongest feelings, those most likely   
to color anyone's thinking.  
  
  
I don't think even Enishi knew how much I loved Akira-sama... and we   
were close.  
  
Closer than most would think usual, for any variety of reasons.  
  
Many would express wonder that a young boy should have so great an   
interest in the affairs of a sister nearly eight years older. And to them   
we would mention the early death of my mother, the fact that I am, I   
fear, the closest thing to a real mother Enishi has ever had.  
  
Oh yes, I fear. I fear many things, not least among them the day when I   
must see my beloved younger brother again. But I rule my fear; my fear   
does not rule me, and I shall not permit it to disrupt my life or cripple   
my soul.  
  
If they knew *what* Enishi was, many would ask how I could endure being   
near him for any time at all, this old-young boy with the cat-cruel eyes.  
  
  
And to them I would have these few words: he is Enishi, my younger   
brother, the only brother I have ever known; and the truth of his being   
my younger brother is one great enough that its defense is worth my   
death, so strike at us not, lest you find the price too high to pay.  
  
A few, those wiser than the rest, would note that on nearly every major   
point our opinions differ, and logically wonder that we could stand each   
other for more than a meal's span.  
  
And to these we have only these words: I am his sister and he is my   
brother and I love him (and he loves me) and love, comprising logic, does   
not need to be bound by it.  
  
It was Enishi, I believe, whom Akira-sama originally noticed; I remember   
how excited my brother was when he proclaimed that an older neighbor had   
offered to teach him something about the skills of the warrior.  
  
Akira-sama did not fence himself completely within his skin, and thus   
did not demand it of Enishi. Akira-sama was *good* with a sword.   
Akira-sama was unfailingly courteous to Enishi -- and to me.  
  
Akira-sama, for some reason neither Enishi nor I could ever figure out,   
tumbled head-over-heels into love with me.   
  
Enishi thought it was funny.  
  
I thought it was one of Kichijouten's miracles. The day that his parents   
asked my father to give him my hand in marriage, I could almost have   
danced.  
  
We were so young.  
  
Enishi made noises for a while and then suddenly joined the party   
petitioning for an immediate wedding. (I think that the fact that he   
expected to live with us after the marriage had something to do with it.)  
  
  
But the entire country seemed to be slowly plunging into a madness, and   
one day Akira-sama told me that he was going to be part of it.  
  
I asked him if it were something he had to do.  
  
He said it was.  
  
We embraced, clumsily, the way we had twice or thrice since the   
betrothal when we could snatch a small space of time for ourselves --   
pressed one against the other with only our clothes separating us.  
  
I asked him to promise not to forget me.  
  
He promised.  
  
And of his own initiative, he promised to live and come home and wed me.  
  
  
I did not require that promise of him, and so I will forgive it him that   
he did not keep it.  
  
  
When I heard that Akira-sama had died, I believed it, but I didn't.  
  
I believe I thanked the messenger for his news and went about my daily   
business, waiting for the shock to set in and relieve me. It never did.  
  
Enishi was full of rage, vowing vengeance on the Ishin Shishi, the   
Hitokiri Battousai, anyone and everyone.  
  
I? I went on with my life because it was there. I ate food because I   
needed nourishment to stay healthy, and once I started I could usually go   
on. I went to bed at reasonable times, and once I fell asleep I could   
usually stay that way. I hurt as I had not since my mother died; I found   
ways to deal with the pain, and the sorrow, and the anger that such a   
thing should have happened to us.  
  
And after a few days of that, I came to a decision. I set out for Kyoto.   
I needed to see the place where he'd died, and his killer, to make it   
real for me. It seemed as if I were living in a dream.  
  
And as I walked on in that dream, I decided to avenge Akira-sama's   
death.  
  
It was not, truly, out of any great and noble impulse. Only from two   
thoughts, which had echoed in my head the whole way.  
  
By what right did the murderer go on living, when Akira-sama was dead   
before his wedding day?  
  
And why hadn't someone stopped this legendary hitokiri before he ruined   
my life? Someone should have. Anyone could have. *I* would have if I had   
known that he would ruin all the hopes of a young couple.  
  
It would only take one.  
  
Even one like me.  
  
Why *not* me?  
  
  
It was probably a very good thing that I did entangle myself with the   
Yaminobu; I might well have tried some stupid action otherwise that, even   
if successful, would have slain me as well. And what good would it do me   
or Akira-sama, to die for one already dead?  
  
Yet even so, that was the greatest error I have yet made.  
  
It is easy, after all, to hate a monster out of legend.  
  
Harder to hate an ordinary human like everyone else -- and hitokiri are   
human, too.  
  
Harder yet to hate someone with whom one has lived and shared   
experiences.  
  
Harder still to hate someone whom one understands.  
  
And more than anyone save his old master, I understand Himura Kenshin;   
even though he does not truly understand me.  
  
  
There is a riddle which once my mother posed to me, long and long ago.   
It is impossible to understand someone -- truly understand them -- and   
not love them, unless it be that one is badly broken inside. But it is   
unnecessary to understand someone in order to love them.  
  
  
I knew my mother and my uncle well, and when I spoke to them I saw them   
and heard them. I do not know how old I was when I realized that other   
people did not see them as I did; but then, none of those other people   
lived entirely on the inside of their skins.  
  
When someone spills outside of their skin, they run the risk of seeing   
others through pieces of themselves.  
  
If everyone is on the outside, that is not much problem: even with the   
little bits of self floating around, the basic person is too much there   
to be mistaken.  
  
But a person who lives on the inside of their skin is like a pool of   
still water to those people: if they are not very careful, all they will   
see are distorted reflections of aspects of themselves.  
  
Only if we all live entirely on the inside of our skins will we be able   
to all meet face to face.  
  
I wonder what Kenshin sees when he looks at me -- something of me, or   
some distorted reflection of what he needs in a woman?  
  
I wonder what Kenshin loves when he believes he loves me -- me, or just   
a part of me, or some distorted reflection of what he needs in a woman?  
  
Because although I do not understand him *fully* -- I may never -- I   
know that I love him, all of him, even the part of him I met in a rain of   
blood, on the street one dark night.   
  
Not the way I loved Akira-sama, but it is just as strong. Maybe   
stronger. I was so young... I've aged so much this year. If I ever   
doubted that I was older than Enishi in the way it counted, I can do so   
no longer. I love Kenshin, Shinta, Battousai, in the way that a woman   
loves -- eyes wide open to faults, and accepting despite them.  
  
And it hurts, knowing that he may not love me back in that same way.   
That he may never.  
  
But I have mastered this ache as I have mastered my other feelings. I   
would not willingly cause him grief, after all.  
  
  
I didn't want to love him, of course. I most certainly did not plan to.  
  
It's not his fault that from the time we first met, I had trouble seeing   
the hitokiri for the boy and the man.  
  
When I was staying with the group, I would make myself listen to them as   
they discussed the intricacies of their trade, hoping thus to focus and   
keep my hate tight -- and I doubt that much can be more disgusting than   
hitokiri talking shop. One learns things about the human body and certain   
of its reactions that one *really* did not want to know.  
  
The only thing that I can conceive of as possibly being even more   
disgusting would be whores talking shop.  
  
But, disgusting as it was, it did not really help in trying to keep   
hating him.  
  
He deals in death.  
  
So did Akira-sama.  
  
So did my uncle.  
  
So does my father.  
  
So would Enishi.  
  
And it's not as if there's anything inherently wrong with death, either.   
It's just... death. Tends to happen after life. Also before.  
  
Have I recollected to mention how efficacious kanjou-kunrin is against   
fear? Not just in controlling it, either. Many fears, when faced and   
grappled with (as one must to master them) turn out to be nothing at all,   
or at any rate not much.  
  
And therefore I do not fear death. I had rather not die just yet, but if   
I were to I would not be afraid. I will sooner or later in any event, and   
it would merely be the gateway on to my next life. Perhaps in my next   
one, I will be more comfortable with smiling. Perhaps in my last one, I   
was loud and extravagant and lived on the outside of my skin. Perhaps   
it's the other way around.  
  
Yet though I do not fear death itself, I fear dying.  
  
Not that that matters any in how I deal with things -- I mastered that   
fear long ago. I rule my feelings; my feelings do not rule me. My fears   
cannot cause me to do stupid or nearly impossible things: I can call them   
up and dismiss them as I choose.  
  
Do you know, I believe *that* is the true reason why Enishi is so bad at   
kanjou-kunrin? If he were to pursue it, he would have to master his   
feelings; and in order to do that, he would have to dethrone his terror   
of death -- the fear that has ruled him for so long that he is deluded   
into believing it, rather than his greatest weakness, his greatest   
strength.  
  
He would have to cease his endless teasing of death, refusing by means   
possible and impossible to let it take him.   
  
O my brother, my brother...!  
  
Death is a thing neither to be courted nor to be scorned. It merely...   
is.  
  
And the impression people would have of us at first sight is indeed   
true; I am far older and wiser than he is. As I make no claim to wisdom,   
his share is small indeed.  
  
I am sure that I would recognize Enishi no matter what he was. Just as I   
am sure that despite his teachings of his secret, I could not use it --   
it is not what I am.  
  
When I see him again, perhaps I should tell him. Or perhaps not; it is a   
hard thing and a bitter parting, and I see him too little to wish a   
sundering between us any sooner than must be.  
  
And now whom am I deluding? When he comes, it will doubtless be to tell   
me that all is in readiness forcing me to a choice that, for different   
reasons, we know is no choice at all.  
  
  
When I first met my husband, my plan was simple. Spy him out, find out   
his secrets, and deliver them into the hands of his enemies that he might   
be thus delivered.  
  
I had foolishly not realized that in the process of finding out about   
him, I would *find out* about him; discover the amazing bundle of   
contradictions and impossibilities that is Himura Kenshin.  
  
Nor that finding out about him, I would understand him.   
  
It was about then that the soldiers all began to look like children to   
me; even Katsura-san, which is something of a feat in itself.  
  
So much to start from a fight in an alleyway, a bowl of chilled sake,   
and a boy's chivalrous gesture.  
  
And now Kenshin and I are... what are we, I wonder?  
  
More than lovers.  
  
Less than friends.  
  
Married, I suppose; a lie that came to become real in its own time.  
  
Is Himura Tomoe also a lie that came to become real in her own time...?   
I don't know any more.  
  
I know that I love him.  
  
I know that I am samurai, born to samurai, of the line and the blood of   
samurai, despite the fact that I have never been or been trained to war.  
  
That doesn't matter; samurai, despite the popular misconception, does   
not mean 'warrior.'  
  
It means 'servant.'  
  
All our apparent privileges are only because we serve, unto death if   
need be, that which we must serve.  
  
I am samurai, born to samurai. I am a servant, born to service.  
  
Service of...?  
  
My family has ties which date back many generations, to our lord and   
through him to his lord and to his lord, all the way to the shogun, even   
if certain relations have forgotten it.  
  
I have married out of Yukishiro. I have married into Himura, if that is   
in truth a family.  
  
The bonds between parent and child last for one lifetime; those between   
husband and wife for two. I don't know if this is our first or our   
second, but truly he is my husband.  
  
I love him. I love him.  
  
All of us serve the same things, in the end. Truth. Justice. Love.  
  
It's just that somewhere along the line, it became tangled and the   
methods of serving seemed more important than the service itself.  
  
It's hard to serve an ideal; something which has many meanings to many   
people.  
  
But a person; that one can serve, and I serve him.  
  
His death is unacceptable. By his life he recompenses me daily for the   
loss of Akira-sama's, if such things as life and death were to be reduced   
to stones in a merchant's abacus.  
  
And even did it not... his death will not make *anyone's* as if it had   
never been.  
  
I understand death. I do not fear it.  
  
But oh, I am so tired of it.  
  
I would have liked to have children. I still might, I suppose; but with   
my chosen path, there are grave doubts.  
  
It is his survival that is of paramount importance; he will not die if I   
can prevent it.  
  
And nothing is as important to me as my chosen path. Kanjou-kunrin is   
useful in making decisions as well; one can see clearly, unencumbered by   
emotional baggage. Even if he hates me for it, let him live. Even if it   
hurts him, let him live; hurt he will eventually grow beyond if he has   
life in which to do so. Hate would be a small price to pay. As would my   
health. As would my life.  
  
But I will not -- cannot -- embarrass him by displaying all this in   
public, where anyone could see, and where it could be used against him.  
  
I have always lived on the inside of my skin.  



End file.
